


1602: Fortune's Fool

by CaliChardonnay



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel 1602
Genre: 1602 - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Elizabethan Era, Alternate Universe - Historical, Burned at the stake, Disturbing Themes, Origin Story, Shakespearean Language, Torture, Witch Hunt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-19 15:58:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17604434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaliChardonnay/pseuds/CaliChardonnay
Summary: Held prisoner in the Tower of London as one of the alleged "witchbreed," the dead fool, Wilson, must either offer a false confession to his crimes against the Crown, or succumb to the pain of torture and Death.A retelling of Deadpool's comic book origin story, set in Earth-311, the world of Neil Gaiman's Marvel: 1602.





	1602: Fortune's Fool

Heavy boots knocked purposely against stone floors to the beat of a well-trained march, the softer padding of bare feet tripping and dragging mingled between each unified step. Two large yeomen, richly clad in red and black garb, entered the dank, dark room lit only by a few ornate sconces upon the stone walls, a struggling, thinner man with faded yellow hair in tow. A man in black leather with stringy, greasy hair pulled back into a tight ponytail greeted them with a sneering, toothy grin.  
  
“Ah, Wilson! The King's Fool returns to my chambers yet again for another night of pleasure.”  
  
“Ah, Francis! The Inquisitor’s Dog invites me thusly to make an honest whore my wife. Believe me, sir, the pleasure is all my own.”  
  
The man in black's smile faded into a grimace at Wilson's venomously lashing tongue. “String him up, sirs,” he sharply ordered the guards in a low voice. “Then leave us. The fool and I have much to discuss before this evening turns to light again.” The two yeoman did as they were told with an odd sense of relish, binding the thin man's wrists behind his back with thick ropes that dug roughly into his skin. The rope was passed through a crude pulley system that suspended the prisoner into the air, as iron weights were tied to his ankles. Wilson grit his teeth as he felt himself pulled into the air, his shoulders and forearms screaming out silently from the pain of being stretched out of place. His pale face brightened to a flushed crimson and veins popped from his temples as he refused to give his torturer even the slightest whimper.   
  
Francis held fast to the other end of the rope with another smile that showed miles of gums and teeth. “I believe while you are in my care, Wilson, you were to refer to me as Lord Aegis. We have yet to build a kinship worthy of such familiarity.” He pulled down hard against the rope, a short yelp and several labored gasps echoing through the crackling of flame. “Now, a confession?”  
  
Furrowing his brow tightly to swallow back the pain, Wilson instead offered a weakened sneer. “A confession,” he gasped, beads of sweat dripping down his nose and through his fair hair. “I call  _no_  man 'lord'.”  
  
“And it would seem you call no man 'king', or else you'd not be down here with me. Confess, witchbreed.”  
  
The prisoner's eyes widened. “Witchbreed? Call me not of their kind – my only sin is a sharp tongue and a sharper wit. Perhaps not the knowledge of when to use such gifts, but  _Witchbreed_...I would rather face Death than accept such an insult!.”  
  
The rope pulled down again. Several pops and tears resounded within the fool's body as a barely human scream rang out, shaking the torches in their sconces.   
  
“Think not that I have overlooked your state as you return to me – as fit as your first day and nary a scratch upon you!” Francis kept the rope tight, holding Wilson's ailing bones just as taut. “Most men would be made a worm's meal by now...but not  _you_. I ask again, Wilson...confess to your sins. Confess you bedded with the Devil, Witchbreed.”  
  
“I confess to bedding no devil!” the fool screamed out as his shoulders tore from their proper place on his torso, “Nay, but for the one that squeezed you out from betwixt her thighs!”   
  
Exhaling angrily through his large nose and gritted teeth, Lord Francis of Aegis paused before finally releasing the strappado's rope all at once, forcing Wilson back to the ground, his knees releasing a terrifying crack as they rammed against stone. The black-clad sadist stepped over to a wooden table behind the device, leather boots padding against the floor with purpose, poring over several metallic masks and tools lined up in a pretty row. He pulled up a strangely shaped device, a pear like bulb made of four sections that separated with a turn of the church key at the opposite end. He smiled at his prisoner, who was gasping for air and whimpering softly to himself for the momentary respite, and knelt down beside him.  
  
“Confess,” Francis growled again, stroking the Pear gently between his fingers, separating the four segments of the bulb slightly and releasing again. “Confess, witchbreed, before you are denied another chance to speak this night.” Lifting the thin man up by his throat, he pried open Wilson's jaw with a powerful thumb, looking down upon him like filth beneath his boot.   
  
Wilson merely glared hard at him, sweat and anguished tears glistening in the low firelight as the device was shoved deep into his mouth. The key at the end was turned and turned and turned again, separating the bulb to extend the man's jaw from within. Amidst the painful gasps and whimpers from the prisoner, Francis couldn't help but chuckle at the sounds he was hoping to hear all night. He grabbed hold of the strappado's rope again and hoisted Wilson back into stretched suspension, where he would be left until the first light of morning.   
  
Francis shook his head as he tied the rope down in place. “I know not how you are not yet dead, fool.”

 

\---

 Wilson huddled against the cold stone of his cell in the Tower, where he was left to rot away during the daylight hours, sobbing and muttering to himself as the afternoon light creeping through the barred window softly faded into dusk. He held himself tightly, his tattered, yellowed tunic soaked in a mix of sweat and blood, as he ran his shaking fingers through faded, golden locks. The wounds and torn muscles of the previous evening had since recovered, much to Wilson's shock and horror, though the pain of the ordeal still played again and again in the theater of his mind.  
  
“Ride a cock horse to Banbury Cross...” he murmured in a quavering voice to the quiet walls, threads of fine yellow hairs stringing between his fingers and thumbs as they tore easily from his scalp. “To see a fine lady upon a white horse...”  
  
“And wouldst thou wander so far to look upon such a lady?” A gentle, almost ethereal, voice spoke from the darkened corners of the cell.   
  
Wilson looked up with a start at these words, and lost all breath at the sight of their owner. Mounted upon an off-white mare was the most beautiful creature the fool had ever laid eyes upon - skin pale as the moon with wild raven hair creeping out of hiding from beneath a pitch black riding cloak and hood. Her lips, stained the color of summer blackberries, curled into a knowing smile as she silently dismounted. Oh, if he could take one taste of those lips, he would happily die tonight with no regrets.   
  
He replied to her inquiry, “Nay, for what lady could compare to the fairest of all maids that rides to me this day upon a horse so pale?”  
  
“Kind sir, thou dost flatter me, sir. I see thou art an orator, a man who knows his way around a phrase. Pray tell, how does one with a flowered tongue such as thine find himself in such a place, locked away from the ears of those who would revel in his jests and songs?”  
  
“Not all find revelry in my jests, dear lady,” Wilson sighed, hugging his knees closer to his chest. “The King was not amused by my songs, nay, he took great offense. And among my alleged crimes against the crown, they now accuse me of witchcraft! Pray, how can one consort with the Devil when an Angel stands before him as you do now?”  
  
“Oh? I be an Angel, then.”  
  
“Of all the words in all the tongues I have learned, fair maid, Angel is the one I choose for you. I may be a fool, but I am no idiot – a beautiful gentlewoman such as yourself does not simply appear in the Tower before a prisoner, riding atop a mare with nary a sound!” The prisoner's eyes began to well up with heavy tears that trickled down his thin cheeks. “So my mind has either gone numb from torture or you are an Angel sent from on high to take me from this place. Though there is more truth in the first, I so wish to believe in the second.”  
  
The dark lady knelt down beside the shivering Wilson, wiping away his tears with a fragile, ivory hand, a consoling love evident upon her soft features. Her skin was icy cold to the touch. “I do intend to take thee from this place,” she spoke in a gently comforting whisper. “But first, thou must succumb..”  
  
“You mean confess...” the fool held his own hand against hers, not wanting to lose her touch. “I am no witchbreed and I will not be barred from Heaven by offering false confession...”  
  
“No, my love, confess not to such falsehoods. But thou must succumb. Clinging so desperately onto Life, yet in the embrace of Death wilt thou find thy salvation.” The lady leaned in close, the chill of her breath brushing just beyond the reach of Wilson's lips. “Succumb to the pain...and fall into the arms of Death. There...wilt thou find absolution.”  
  
The heavy bolts of the prison door clanked out in warning as the cell door swung open with a jarring smash. Wilson's heart burst from his chest as he turned his head towards the door, the familiar guardsmen grimacing at him. “Lord Aegis has called again for your audience, Wilson,” one of them sneered, quickly coming upon the prisoner to snatch him up and force him to his feet. The fool looked back to the dark lady, only to find he was alone with the yeomen. No pale mare, no raven-haired maid. Just the shadowed stone walls lit only by the fading remnants of the sun at dusk. It took every fraction of his being not to cry out in despair.  
  
“His flesh is again whole and he refuses to scream upon moving his limbs! The evidence against you is staggering, witchbreed. Would it not be easier to confess to your sins?” The guards dragged Wilson back to the interrogation chambers, though he did not struggle as hard against them as he had previous nights, and smiled eerily to himself with newfound resolve.  
  
He would not confess.   
  
He would instead succumb to Death...and reunite with his beautiful Angel. 

 

\---

 “Angels!” Lord Aegis scoffed at the pale man bound tightly to posts on the floor, the sounds of leather boots pacing and the skittering of rodents' claws echoing through Wilson's ears. The interrogation chamber was awash in a brighter, warmer glow this evening, the flickering sconces on the walls accompanied by a roaring fire in a stone hearth, illuminating every restraint and torture device in all their terrifying glory. Wilson didn't struggle against the bonds wrapped about his wrists and ankles, the ropes warm and wet with blood and sweat, and instead smiled serenely to himself as he stared up at the crumbling rafters in the the ceiling. “He claims to speak to Angels now! And pray, what Angel would look upon a filthy witchbreed such as yourself?”  
  
Wilson continued staring upwards, lost in his own head with a growing grin, barely hearing Francis' biting words. “I speak naught but the truth...” he replied in a dreamlike tone, lost in his thoughts. “Mine eyes have lain upon the most fair of Angels who hath sworn to take me from this place.” The prisoner's warm blue eyes sparkled in the firelight as his gaze finally shifted to his tormentor, his mind still clinging to the memory of Death, her lovely face, her gentle promises. “Let us begin, Francis. I wish not to keep her waiting long.”  
  
Aegis narrowed his eyes with a sneer at the sound of his name being used in such a familiar manner, not enjoying the fool's enthusiasm in the least. “No Angel awaits you, fool,” he growled, taking up a pair of iron tongs to lift a crude, metal jug from the floor into the hearth. “But I believe I know who does. I heard a tale, a rumor, really, of a witchbreed boy that had been held in Spain. One who counterfeited the image of an Angel when he lay with the Devil, one who bore ill-gotten feathered wings upon his back. He was to be burned for heresy, and refused to confess to his sins. Much like you.” The man in black gingerly placed his fingers against a large, deep hole in the stone wall above the hearth, allowing a rather scrawny rat to wriggle into his hand, struggling to escape his grasp. “Confess, witchbreed. No jests, no jeers, only truth, and you will be offered mercy. Your Angel was that boy, and his damnable coven thinks they can save you, as they had him. The truth, fool. Confess.”  
  
Wilson raised an eyebrow at this accusation, unsure if his tormenter had gone completely mad, or if it was still just his own crumbling mind causing his confusion. “Nay, no feather winged boys have come to me in my lonesome little tower. No coven of Spanish witchbreed. The only confession I proclaim now unto forever is my undying love for my raven-haired Angel and a longing to press against her pale breast in passionate embrace. That is my confession, Francis, and I confess no more than that.” The fool wore a broad grin on his tired, thin face, his eyes burning with resolve. “Let us begin. My lady waits.”   
  
Aegis pulled the metal jug from the fire, now gleaming red with heat, and snorted angrily through his nose at the man at his feet. “Let us begin,” he parroted as the jug was placed, searing hot, upon Wilson's emaciated belly. The prisoner swallowed back the urge to scream out, instead taking deep, shaking breathes as he attempted to relax his entire body into the torment. The mangy and hunger-pained creature wriggling and writhing in the torturer's hand was slipped between the metal container and soft flesh, squeaking out it's own screams of terror from the sudden oven-like heat it found itself in.   
  
Wilson's eyes tightened and his jaw clenched hard as he attempted to keep his breath even, to not scream out, to just succumb to the pain as the Angel advised. Tiny nails tore frantically into this abdomen as the frightened rat scurried about in its heated prison, until the fool finally felt the first nibble of jagged teeth bear into his skin.   
  
“Confess, and I show you mercy. Remain silent, and you'll not survive to see tomorrow's light.” The fool's breathing grew more rapid as the need to scream out built up, his face flushing with indescribable pain as Aegis sneered at his suffering. “If that is your choice, Wilson...it saddens me that this will be our last night together.” With that, he left the rodent to enjoy its meal, the sound of the iron locks on the door latching closed resounding through the dungeon.  
  
The rat chewed its way deep beneath Wilson's skin, burrowing its nose into his stomach, its tiny teeth constantly gnashing and ripping until it was fully inside his intestines. Dizzy with pain and nausea, the fool retched and sputtered, trying in vain not to vomit from the sensation of the creature squirming about within him, all whiskers and sharp teeth. He suppressed another scream that threatened to escape his throat, instead inhaling sharply and deeply, his breathing growing more and more labored.   
  
The feeling of icy fingers grazed against his cheek, and the fool opened his eyes. Leaning over him was his Angel, her blackberry lips curled into a loving smile as she she brushed faded blonde wisps of hair away from his eyes. Wilson longed to cry out to her, but his words were quickly eaten by his throes of anguish and swirling sensation of sickness.  
  
The raven-haired Angel spoke instead, comfortingly stroking his hair. “Fight not, my dear reveler. Allow my arms to embrace thee against mine bosom, and send thee off to sleep with a gentle kiss. Freedom shalt be thine...but thou must end thy struggle. Life hast cast thee aside, my love. Only Death shouldst thou desire...just as Death desires thee.”  
  
A soft whimper and groan was Wilson's only response, blood and bile dripping from the corners of his mouth. His expression of unfathomable pain faded into a calmed smile as his eyes rolled to the back of his head, his vision going dark as he slipped into sleep.  
  
  
The fool was alive with not a mark on him by the time the yeomen arrived to fetch his body, as if the rat that nibbled its way out of his belly had never been placed there at all.   
  
“I believe we need no confession any longer. The evidence speaks for itself. This man can only be breathing still if he made a deal with a demon.”  
  
“But, Lord Aegis, how does one execute a man who does not die?”  
  
“The very way we dispose of all of his kind. On the morrow, we burn him...until there is nothing left of his damned bones but ash.”

 

\---

 A procession of guardsmen and priests filed out of the Tower into the main square towards a large formation of piled lumber, stacked high with dry straw. Surrounding the stake where he was to burn, crowds of people and carts of merchants chattered and sang and laughed, all awaiting the entertainment that was the execution of an accused witchbreed, as if a man's death were a worthy cause of celebration.   
  
Wilson walked slowly, step by agonizing step, at the center of the line to his execution site, a foul stench of spoiled eggs offending his nose, the simple white tunic he wore having been smeared with sulfur before leaving his cell in order for his body to burn more brilliantly. It would make for a more spectacular showing, he had been told, a pleasure for the crowd. A rope hung limply about his neck that was led by Francis of Aegis with a certain degree of glee, who made sure to tug at it sharply from time to time, just to cause a few more moments of anguish before this game was to end. The fool felt his heart pounding hard and fast in his chest, as if it would burst and fail him all at once before the flames were even to be lit. He wished it would and spare him the stake. Keeping his feet moving forward, he glanced out the corner of his eye to find his beautiful Angel atop her pale mare, riding beside him in her midnight-colored riding cloak, her mount's hooves silent as a ghost.   
  
“We shalt be as one in but a few scant moments, my love. A quick kiss of flame, and the kiss of Death shalt be thine.”  
  
“Aye,” Wilson whispered sullenly, keeping his head down.  
  
“Dost this not bring thee joy? To shed thine mortal coil and join me in the hereafter?”  
  
“To lay with you, sweet lady, t'is my only desire, and yet...” The death procession halted at the pile of wood and hay, flickering torches casting their heat from the hands of two masked men positioned at either side. “And yet, I am still afeared.”  
  
“If you feel fear, you need only confess,” Aegis interrupted the conversation he was unaware was occurring. “Speak truth of your heresy now, and you shall be shown mercy.”  
  
“Ah yes,  _mercy_ , good sir. A mercy from you would to allow my death to be made swifter. Perhaps you would wet the straw so I may choke upon the smoke of my pyre and sleep through my undoing.” Wilson grinned coyly at his tormentor. “Or, mayhap, you wouldst throw your own fat rump against the flames. Snuff them out before the fire lay a kiss upon my arse so you may have the pleasure to do so first.”  
  
“If I did not desire to revel in your screams this day, I wouldst cut out that lashing tongue,” Aegis growled, pulling the rope about the condemned prisoner's neck and forcing his frail body against the stake, tying him to it tightly. “Last chance for mercy. Confess you be witchbreed, and I wrap the rope about your throat instead of letting the fire take its time to end you.”  
  
Wilson spat a thick glob of saliva in Aegis' face with a grin. “A gracious offer, Francis. But any mercy you offer compares not to my Angel.”  
  
Aegis grimaced and wiped the slime that had burst across his nose as he dismounted from the pile of dry straw. One of the yeoman clapped a hand on the man in black's shoulder in reassurance. “Mind him not, my lord, and let him sort his sins with God. You say so yourself, he is merely a fool.”  
  
“And the only good fool is a dead fool. Light the flames.”  
  
The torches were touched down upon the base of the pyre, setting ablaze almost immediately, the flames slowly and purposefully crawling upwards towards Wilson's shivering frame. The orange glow reflected against his soft eyes as he looked out over the cheering crowd, laying them upon the cloaked Angel watching him burn with the others.  
  
“Struggle no more...fight no more...absolution is nearly at hand, and thou shalt be mine and I of thine.”  
  
The fire stretched upwards brilliantly, catching his tunic and lighting up the fool's entire body in heat and light. His skin sizzled and cooked, tightening into a grotesque creature of red and black, the worst smell of burning human hair and flesh emanating into the air. Wilson screamed out in pain and terror, pulling against his restraints as fire licked at his face. Screaming, never-ending screaming, filled the square, the flames engulfing him entirely, an eerie green glow fading in and out between flickers of orange and yellow light.  
  
“Love of loves, thou must not fight! Let it come!” the Angel cried out over the cheering crowd that had assembled. “Thy will to hold fast to Life powers the witch's blood in your veins! If thou wilst not succumb now, thou wilt be cast away from Death forever more!”  
  
The emerald glow grew more vividly bright amidst the tall flames as the shrieking intensified. “I find no respite in this Death!” his voice screeched back to the Angel, the heat of the flames burning through the ropes that bound the fool to the stake. “And I am no witch!” Wilson thrashed and fought against his burning bonds, until the ropes finally gave way and released him, sending him tumbling as a fireball from his pyre towards the crowd. The guards all stomped towards him, calling for someone to grab hold of the badly burned man as he woozily scrambled back to his feet.   
  
His naked skin charred to a tightened black, coated with soot and searing with white-hot pain, Wilson looked back to the terrified and dispersing crowd for the raven-haired Angel and her pale horse, only to find that she had vanished without a trace. His heart dropped into the pit of his stomach and filled with more anguish than his flame-kissed flesh, before breaking off into a wobbling sprint to make his escape.   
  
Several guards and yeomen were on his tail, and Wilson leaped over a fruit seller's cart, knocking it over into his pursuers' path, juice and pulp exploding into the dusty dirt road. The fool laughed maniacally to himself as he ran, looking over his shoulder in glee at the men slipping and sliding about in their attempt to continue the chase. By the time his eyes were forward again, he spotted Aegis rushing towards him, sword in hand and an displeased grimace on his face. Wilson's stomach lurched with panic and he scrambled to change directions, only to smack directly into another guard and be wrestled immediately to his knees.  
  
Aegis stood over the struggling Wilson with a wicked grin, sword gleaming in the sunlight. “That pretty face of yours does not mend so readily now, does it, Wilson? And even now you would claim not to be of devil blood.”   
  
“Aye...cursed I may be, but a devil I am not. This I will hold as truth until my Angel returns once again for me.”  
  
“Then, pray, let us draw her near again.” Aegis sneered. “Tell me, fool. Wouldst your head regrow upon your shoulders if I were to lop it off?” The man in black held his blade aloft, and brought it down towards the fool's neck, only for Wilson to crack his skull against the nose of the guard to release himself from his grapple, catching hold of the falling hilt in Aegis' grip in a quick motion. Francis gestured to the guard to sound the alarm to the other yeomen.  
  
The two men struggled for control of the sword when Wilson finally spied his reflection in the shining blade, his sly expression dropping to one of abject horror. His pale skin had been charred beyond recognition, his fair straw-like hair burned away to ashes, and though he felt the strength in his muscles slowly returning to him, his skin did not reform as it had for previous tortures – it seemed that his curse only failed against pure flame.  
  
“No angelic maid would have you now, eh?” Aegis jeered, inching the sword's edge ever closer to the fool's ruined face. “Nay, sir, not with a torn up visage such as yours. Allow me to end your lonesome suffering before it begins.”  
  
“You wilt not end me this day, villain!” With a surge of strength, Wilson pushed against the sword and rammed his aching shoulder into the black-clad man's stomach, twisting the sword's hilt from his vice like grip into his own. The weight of the sword threw him off balance, and the fool stumbled into a leather worker's cart of wares, knocking it over and spilling armor, belts, and ornate masks into Aegis' path. Thinking it would be best to hide his undone face if he were to succeed in escaping this city, Wilson snatched up a skull-like harlequin mask dyed in red and took off running, his tormentor not far behind.   
  
“You cannot run from me forever! You are dead, fool!  _Dead_!”  
  
“I've been dead one hundred times over now, thanks to you, sir!” the fool called out over his shoulder as he reached the city gates and Aegis drew ever nearer. “But it seems an ailment that does not suffer me for long!” Practically tasting freedom on his tongue, Wilson burst into a sprint, throwing another cart in Aegis' way. His pursuer vaulted over the fallen wagon and leaped through the air to tackle his target and make him his prisoner once more. With a deft motion, the burned man stopped short and spun on his heel, jabbing his stolen sword forward, and piercing directly into the belly of his foe with a fierce roar of anger. Aegis' eyes bulged from his face in shock, blood trickling down his chin through sputtered lips.   
  
“I...I see her now...” the man in black sputtered as Wilson drew the blood-soaked blade from its fleshy sheathe. “I am slain...and your Angel...approaches...”   
  
The fool looked about frantically for his promised love, only to see no one but the approaching guards in the distance. Biting his lower lip with a heavy heart, he took off running out of the city and deep into the woods.

 

\---

  **Time Passes...**  
  
Salty spray misted the moonlit, seaweed strung harbor as tiny waves reached up and up to just barely lick the sides of the various wooden ships docked therein. Wilson eyed these fine vessels with a discerning frown from behind the leather jester's mask that hid away his burned and ruined face, holding his chin between slender, gloved fingers in deep thought. Several fortnights had passed since his daring escape from the stake and the Tower, and though the fresh scars coating his thin frame had softened and lightened since that terrifying ordeal, his flesh had been destroyed beyond even his witchlike healing. Carrying only what he had been able to steal, with the blade of the slain Francis of Aegis sheathed securely against his back, the fool nervously looked about in several directions before focusing again on the quiet ships ready to sail upon the morrow, tugging forward the hood to the scarlet traveler's cloak he wore to better hide himself.   
  
England was no longer a safe haven to the escaped prisoner, though leaving the island with nary a penny to his name was to be no simple task. Perhaps if he could sneak aboard and stow away for a short while, hiding below unsuspecting sailor boots, he could travel the long haul to the New World itself for a fresh start. After all, Francis was quite thoroughly dead now, and none of the Tower's nor the King's men would be fool enough to try and follow him that far across the sea. However, as it seemed his witchbreed blood kept him from wholly dying, Wilson couldn't help but wonder if perhaps the nature of his curse could be used to his advantage. Would he be able to go for months at sea without filling his belly or wetting his throat? Or could he instead die from starvation? With that being the case, he might reunite with his Angel sooner than expected, as opposed to arriving in a faraway land.  
  
“Methinks the dice fall in my favor either direction, so long as I may roam from this wretched island,” the fool mused to himself, stepping blithely towards a quiet, lonesome looking ship with several fixtures of rough barnacles clinging to its wet, wooden planks and quietly climbed up a rope ladder to the deck, hoping he wouldn't draw too much attention while he searched for a place to hide. Of course, as to be expected in the tragic dealings of the Dead Fool, his attempts to not be noticed were in vain, as the eye of a ragged-looking man in tattered garb was drawn towards Wilson and suddenly blocked his path with a shining cutlass. With a deft motion, he grabbed hold of the fool by the collar of his tunic, pressing him hard against a stack of tightly bound barrels with a sharp slam and the threat of steel pressed against his scarred throat.  
  
“Skittering little mouse,” the motley sailor growled through crooked, jagged teeth, narrowing his glare directly towards the cut-out eyes of the leather that covered Wilson's visage. “A man who wears a mask hides more than just his face. I know your type, lad – one who wouldst steal himself aboard a vessel as nothing more than vermin, rather than lay coin upon a palm for safe travel and a fair share of rations, as an honest man would. What reason have ye that I should not gut you from neck to belly, and toss the rest of ye into the bay as chum for the beasts below?”  
  
“Good sir, I have no quarrel with you, sir!” The fool shifted uncomfortably between the barrels and the edge of the sailor's blade, darting his gaze about frantically for a means to escape, and finding none. “I was merely admiring your lovely ship and her billowing sails! Such beauty has she, so bewitched and captivated was I, that in my state I dared only to take a closer look. Were my purse not so light, a coin I would gladly lay down to remain in the presence of such illustrious splendor for as long as I may be allowed. But alas, I only carry enough to steal a mere glance.”  
  
The grizzled man glowered hard into the soft blue eyes that lay behind the skull-like harlequin mask, unswayed and unamused at the fool's flowery tongue, pressing the sharp end of his blade deeper against the red-cloaked man's neck. Wilson closed his eyes at the familiar sting of pain, anxiously awaiting the sight of his true love's pale face and lamenting that she may never again return to his side. A thin, red line formed beneath the steel sword, relinquishing tiny beads of blood from the fool's throat that sealed over and vanished so quickly, it was as no harm had come to him at all. The sailor raised one scraggled eyebrow in his shock and confusion. “Do ye not know Death?” he asked in nearly a whisper, strangely awestruck by this feat.  
  
“Aye, sir, I've known Death and lain with her a thousand times over, yet mine heart still aches for the sight of her.”  
  
“Mayhap ye would have better suit upon the high seas than ye appear at first blush, boy.” The tattered looking seaman removed his blade and sheathed it at his belt with a crooked grin. “I'd be sure the captain would be mighty interested in a man of your unique...talents? And if it be coin ye lack, I'm sure a shiny gold piece may just fall upon your palm whilst you earn your keep.”  
  
Wilson touched his fingers against where the blade had cut into his throat, and turned his nose up in response with an overdrawn and dramatic harrumph. “If this be how one recruits for such a vessel, I'll have none of it sir! A gold piece for the work of a man who remains not in the realm of Death? A pittance! A trifle!” A small smirk crawled across his lips as he complained. “Nay sir, a man of my impressive asset wouldst require two shiny gold pieces, at the very least. Nay, three, and not a penny under!”  
  
“The man that knows not of Death...of course that man be a damnable fool.” The sailor grumbled to himself as he shook his head in disbelief. “For your sake, lad, ye better hope that be the case, or else ye will receive no coin at all. Even so, the captain's hunt is half complete, if Death truly does not come near upon your demise. Weigh anchor, mates! It's time we set sail - we have what the Captain needed from this wretched speck of rock!”   
  
A metallic creaking sound of the anchor raising upwards rumbled the ship and Wilson looked about with a sudden start. “Sir, I have not accepted this offer, as I would have believed the ship would sail upon the sun's first light and I would have that time to consider. It is but moonrise – hardly a time to begin such a journey!”  
  
“Afraid ye don't have much choice in the matter now, boy, not with the captain needing ye as he does. After all, ye found your way upon this ship all by your lonesome.” The moon crept out from behind the thick blanket of black clouds above, revealing the sails of the ship to be tattered and frayed in the soft light, only to suddenly light ablaze and billow with fiery movement. The wooden planks that made up the whole of the vessel shimmered in the hellfire's light, each one turning a deep shade of ebony, as the ghostly crew of skeleton sailors faded into existence before the fool's eyes.   
  
Wilson panicked, and immediately made a charge for the edge of the boat as it pulled out from the harbor, only for flames to rise up to halt his escape. “Oh, cruel Fortune!” he cried. “Wouldst thou spare me from one pyre, only to fall into the flames of Hell itself?” He looked back at the grizzled sailor, who had become just as gruesome and ghastly in the moonlight and flame as the haunting specters scrubbing the deck and hoisting the sails.  
  
“Not fallen into Hell, lad, though we may lay anchor there yet! Welcome aboard _The Spirit of Vengeance_!”

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was a "solo RP" story I wrote for a Marvel-based roleplay forum a couple years ago that I'm still really into. It originally lead to another 1602-set tale that I did with a friend cameoing Ghost Rider that, unfortunately, we never rightly completed. However, if folks are into this origin, I might try to write another adventure for Wilson, the Dead Fool.


End file.
